“Are you trained on federal passports?”
Sandra stared at him. Before she could answer, David Walsh arrived. David was the evening duty manager for Meridian’s terminal operation. Thin, forty-six, wearing a navy blazer with a silver company pin. He moved quickly because Janet’s radio call had described a growing crowd and a potential security matter, two phrases guaranteed to ruin a manager’s evening.
“What happened?” he asked.
Sandra handed him torn passport fragments.
“This passenger attempted to use counterfeit diplomatic documentation.”
Marcus watched David’s face. A good manager would have stopped there. He would have asked who destroyed the document. He would have contacted airport police or Customs and Border Protection for verification.
He would have pulled Marcus aside respectfully and prevented the crowd from turning an unresolved question into a public trial. David did none of those things. He studied the damaged fragments under the terminal light as if expertise might appear through concentration.
“The watermark looks off,” he said.
Marcus felt something inside him settle. Not anger exactly.
Evidence.
“What watermark are you expecting?” he asked.
David looked up.
“Sir, please let us conduct our process.”
“I am asking about your process.”
“Those security features don’t look right.”
“Which features?”
David’s face tightened.
“This isn’t a debate.”
“No,” Marcus said. “It is becoming a record.”
The BlackBerry vibrated again. This time the screen showed a message preview. HEARING CONFIRMED — 9:00 A.M. HOUSE TRANSPORTATION OVERSIGHT.
Sandra flipped the phone face down. Marcus looked at her hand.
“Do not touch that device again.”
The steel in his voice finally appeared. Sandra pulled back as if offended. David stepped between them.
“Sir, we’re going to need you to move away from the boarding area while we complete verification.”
“Fine.”
The quick agreement surprised him. Marcus pointed toward the scattered passport pieces.
“But first, have someone collect every fragment and place them in a clean evidence envelope. Do not throw anything away.”
Sandra laughed.
“Evidence?”
Marcus looked at her.
“Yes.”
Something in his expression made Janet stop moving. The boarding countdown reached fourteen minutes. Gate B12 had become an amphitheater.
Passengers stood in a rough half-circle. Phones remained raised. A travel blogger from Aviation Weekly pushed closer when he heard the word diplomatic. Zoe’s stream passed one thousand viewers. Several people from neighboring gates had walked over because nothing attracts a crowd faster than a crowd whose purpose is unclear.
Marcus gathered his messenger bag and walked to the corner area David indicated. The crowd parted around him. Not respectfully. Cautiously.
A mother drew her young daughter closer. The child stared at Marcus with wide eyes. Her mother whispered, “This is why we always follow the rules.” Marcus heard it.
He thought of his own mother, who had taught high school civics in Maryland for thirty-one years. She had told him something different.
Rules matter, Marcus. But never confuse a rule with the person enforcing it. People can misunderstand rules. People can abuse them. Your job is to know the difference.
He wished she had lived to see how literal that lesson had become. At the secondary table, Sandra ordered him to empty his pockets.